


Semantics

by Tah the Trickster (TahTheTrickster)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Cigarettes, Extremely Self-Indulgent on the Part of the Author, F/F, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Philosophy, Post-Talon Widowmaker | Amélie Lacroix, Post-structuralism, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-04-30
Packaged: 2019-04-30 08:55:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14493384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TahTheTrickster/pseuds/Tah%20the%20Trickster
Summary: "You haven't seen enough of it up close."Golden eyes studied her sharply in the moonlight. "Is that so." Three steps and Angela's breath hitched sharply at the feeling of Widowmaker pressed flush against her, pressing her harder against the railing of the balcony, hands grasping the thin iron on either side of Angela's hips. The cold night wind lifted Angela's hair, kissing her neck, making her shiver against Widowmaker's relentless grip. Widowmaker could smell smoke and cloves and champagne on her mouth this close, and it took all the strength she had not to shift nearer. "And how close, exactly, would you recommend, Angela?"





	Semantics

The cold, lonely night air was a blessed relief after the warmth of the gathering indoors, and Widowmaker was all too glad to lean against the frigid iron guardrail to get as far away from the stifling warmth and suffocating chatter as possible. A soft, slow sigh slipped her lips and golden eyes slid shut as the winter chill nipped the nape of her neck like an overeager lover.

Yes, this was  _ much  _ better than being inside with the rest of them.

She felt sure that, at some point, at some time, in another life... She felt sure that at some point she'd have been accustomed to these sorts of gatherings. Fine banquet hall venues, politicians and ambassadors, enough finery to purchase a small country... Indeed, even  _ this _ meeting, a celebration of the repeal of the Petras Act, a reinstatement of Overwatch-the-Second, seemed far better-suited to an esteemed ballerina than a "reformed" killer.

At least then the stares aimed at her when they thought she wasn't looking might've been something aside from fear or disgust.

She couldn't fault them, honestly. It couldn't have been more clear that she didn't belong in there with the rest of them, all normal and  _ human _ . A wolf in sheepskin, or... something equally sinister.

Widowmaker was uncertain of how long she stood outside, eyes half-open as she allowed the frigid breeze to caress her exposed skin, before the sudden increase/decrease in volume of the gathering behind her alerted her to a second presence on the balcony, setting steel in her spine. A forced conversation about why she wasn't having fun indoors was not her idea of entertainment in the slightest.

Nonetheless, she looked up at the muted  _ tok _ of heels on concrete, a sharp jab forming on her tongue—and she swallowed it at the sight of one Doctor Ziegler lingering a scant foot away, hand resting light on the guardrail and bracing her hips easily into the metal.

What in the world Ziegler was doing out here was beyond her, and she couldn't help but regard her with a healthy level of suspicion. Widowmaker had, of course, seen her plenty of times inside, and she'd seemed to be enjoying herself just fine then—smiling, laughing, conversing, all the while looking frustratingly elegant in the deep navy suit that hugged her body  _ just so... _ It seemed odd that someone so enjoying a party would be out here with her instead, standing in silence in the frigid Zürich air, with a mostly-reformed mass assassin. Unless she wanted something.

"Somehow I'm not surprised to find you out here." Ziegler's comment was so sudden and nonchalant that it took Widowmaker a moment to recognize she was being addressed. She glanced askance at her, golden eyes narrowing. Ziegler wasn't even looking at her, but rather taking a sip from the glass of champagne in hand as she stared out at the skyline. "Frankly, I was surprised to see you here at all. At the party, I mean." She placed her glass on one of the short brick pillars that broke up the railing and turned with a small smile. "I didn't get to mention earlier, but that dress is  _ very _ becoming on you."

Widowmaker nearly rolled her eyes.

It  _ did _ look good, of course. She'd picked it out herself. A deep, dark royal blue wrap dress that left her back exposed and, with her hair pinned up in a bun as it was, emphasized the smooth, unmarred curve of her throat. It was thin and breathed well, additionally—a  _ must, _ frankly, with its floor length hemline—though the slit that ran up high on her left thigh assisted with that as well... Ha. She and Angela nearly matched, at least as far as color coordination went. What an unfortunate coincidence.

Angela was still watching her, expectant. Waiting for a reply.

"Why are you out here?" Widowmaker sighed, unable to keep the ire from her voice. She folded her arms stubbornly, meeting Angela's gaze without flinching—frigid gold on warm blue. Irony, or something like it, she thought.

Angela blinked only once at the irked demand, rocking back thoughtfully on her sensible black kitten heels. "Should I not be?"

Widowmaker frowned. What in the world sort of question was that? "You should be down with the rest of them,  _ non? _ " She gestured back at the door leading inside, back into the warmth of the party gathered below them. Back with all the normal humans celebrating normal human things. "I am afraid you are doing little more than wasting your time out here, Doctor Ziegler."

"Just Angela, please," she begged her pardon, unbuttoning the navy jacket to expose the matching vest that highlighted her waist and chest so nicely. "And if I may... I would have to disagree with you on whether or not I'm wasting my time." Angela dipped a hand into the inner pocket, withdrawing an expensive-looking carton of cigarettes. Widowmaker's brows rose sharply. "I know, I know," Angela chuckled, rapidly knocking the carton against her free palm. She flipped it open, plucking one out, and examined it briefly—slipped it back into the box upside down and took another out without looking.

"You're a  _ doctor, _ " Widowmaker said simply. She supposed she should be somewhat scandalized by the revelation that Angela smoked, and evidently long enough to have a ritual about it, but that the supposedly  _ perfect, angelic _ doctor still had her vices was... intriguing, to say the least.

"I know," Angela repeated, that amused little smile still tugging at her lips. She gestured with the cigarette, unlit, between her fingers. "Do you mind?" Widowmaker shook her head wordlessly. "Thank you. Oh, would you like to—?"

"Ah," Widowmaker said as Angela offered the carton to her. She hesitated for a second before shaking her head. "No, I—no... Thank you. I don't smoke." She didn't think she did, anyway. She didn't now, she supposed.

"Good for you," Angela said, somehow managing to sound neither sarcastic nor patronizing. Widowmaker was briefly distracted, gaze following Angela's long, slender fingers as they brought the cigarette up to hang easily from her mouth—and Widowmaker, then, found herself distracted with those pink, soft-looking lips. "Shit's bad for you," Angela added as an afterthought, smiling wryly as she traded the carton for the matchbook in her inner pocket.

"You don't say," Widowmaker intoned emotionlessly, a flicker of a smile toying at her lips regardless. She'd never heard the good doctor swear before, either.

"I do say." The match hissed sharply as she snapped it across the striker, flaring easily as she pocketed the book again. Angela cupped her smoke against the breeze long enough to light it—waved the match out and took a deep drag, soft blue eyes closing with contentment. Widowmaker's next breath in was thick with the scent of sulfur and spice.

"Cloves?" she questioned aloud, a brow lifting at the realization.

Angela's exhale was slow and controlled, blowing the fragrant smoke up into the night sky. "Can't stand menthols," she said mildly, eyes opening again to watch her. She flicked a bit of loose ash from her cigarette with a practiced motion before bringing it back to her mouth. "And people are less opposed to my smoking nearby when they don't smell," she added with a crooked grin.

Widowmaker smirked, shifting closer despite herself. "Not that you tend to smoke at all regardless," she drawled, drumming her fingers idly on the railing. " _ I _ never took you for a smoker. Angela."

There was a flicker of...  _ something _ in Angela's eyes at the sound of her name, but she turned to ash her cigarette before Widowmaker could place it. "I'm not," she said, tapping a finger against her smoke. "I've quit. On the record."

The sly smile Angela shot her was unexpected enough to make Widowmaker pause before chuckling wryly. "Ah, so I see." Angela turned away again, smiling softly and shaking her head at the jibe. "So what exactly has the esteemed Doctor Ziegler back into her vices, hm?"

"Angela," she corrected sternly, pointing at her with her cigarette and smiling. She brought it back to her lips, the cloves crackling quietly as she took another deep drag. "And... Well." She seemed to think about it for a moment, holding her smoke between two fingers and pursing her lips thoughtfully. "I suppose the same reason you're out here instead of inside,  _ ja? _ "

Widowmaker blinked at the pointed inquiry—then, with a soft laugh, she relented, folding her arms and shaking her head.  _ Well played. _ "It is... overwhelming," she admitted with a shrug, tucking a stray lock of hair back behind her ear.

"Overstimulating," Angela broke in to concur, the word slightly muffled around her cigarette.

"Frankly..." She hesitated, gaze trained on Angela from the corner of her eye. Angela seemed surprisingly aloof, focused more on enjoying her stolen smoke break than prodding her. At length, Widowmaker shrugged, adding, "I prefer to be out here. In there, it—"

"—feels like you're not supposed to be there with everyone else," Angela supplied, nodding absently. Widowmaker didn't say anything for a long moment, simply staring at her as she ashed her cigarette without meeting her look. Angela sighed out a plume of smoke and shot her a wry smile. "Same reason, then."

The distant thrum of hovervehicles speeding over the nearby roadway, the rumble of indoor chatter, and the soft smoulder of the cigarette were the only sounds on the balcony for several moments as Angela allowed Widowmaker to size her up, perplexed.

Angela was nearly one of the old guard, herself. She'd been one of the faces of Overwatch, a callback to its glory days. There'd been plenty of posters of her, armored in the Valkyrie, palm lifted skyward and digits gilded in healing nanite technology. She'd been universally adored, one of the most brilliant scientists of her time—still  _ was _ —and now Widowmaker was expected to believe that Angela felt estranged within her own ranks. Peculiar.

Her head swam to even consider it.

"Perhaps I'll take that cigarette after all," Widowmaker murmured, holding out a hand and beckoning for one with a single finger.

Angela blinked. "Thought you said you don't smoke," she noted, fishing the carton from her pocket nonetheless. Widowmaker took the proffered cigarette with a soundless "thank you" and brought it to her lips.

"I really shouldn't," Widowmaker acknowledged easily, watching for a moment as Angela patted down her pockets for her matches. After a moment golden eyes rolled in something like fond exasperation and she turned in to Angela, back to the frigid wind, and grabbed her by the necktie, tugging her closer expectantly.

It took Angela a second to comprehend, but then she nodded, adjusting her own smoke to press the smoldering end to Amélie's cigarette. The movement was close. Far closer than was appropriate for friends, let alone acquaintances. Widowmaker's hand rested instinctively on Angela's shoulder for balance—Angela's fingers nearly brushed Widowmaker's cheek as she cupped a hand against the wind—and it took Widowmaker a moment to recall to inhale properly, the subtle scent of the perfume bathing Angela's throat proving quite the distraction.

Angela made a soft noise when the light finally took and pulled reluctantly back, eyes lidded. Widowmaker's hand lingered for a long moment against the side of Angela's neck, feeling that curious lack of pulse, before pulling back as well to focus on her cigarette. She took a long, languid drag, the spice and smoke hot on her throat, and sighed it slowly out again, muscle memory seizing her instantly. Perhaps she had smoked at one point, after all.

"What's the phrase you used?" Widowmaker finally spoke up with a little half-smirk, lazily folding her arms under her breasts and tapping the ash from the end. "'Shit's bad for me?'"

Angela's gaze was still captivated by the slow, deliberate way Widowmaker's lips formed her words. It took her a moment to realize she was being addressed. It took her longer still to realize how low the cherry on her cigarette was burning—till she cursed sharply in German, dropping it and grinding it out with her heel. Widowmaker chuckled softly, tending her own cigarette as Angela muttered irritably and went for a second cigarette.

"They are," Angela agreed, finally bringing her next smoke back to her lips. "Shit'll kill you." Something like a dark mirth glittered in her light blue eyes. She took an exaggeratedly deep drag from it, smoke curling soft from her lips.

Widowmaker offered her an approximation of a smile. " _ Well _ ," she said. Another lingering inhale—exhale—inhale—Widowmaker flicked the spent cigarette to the concrete ground, crushing it under the toe of her stiletto. " _...Je n'ai pas peur d'une petite mort. _ Angela."

Angela inhaled sharply.

" _ Crass, _ " she murmured, shaking her head.

Widowmaker's grin was vicious. "Perhaps."

"Nonetheless." Angela held her smoke carelessly, tapping the spent ash over the edge of the railing. "You aren't afraid of death because you haven't spent enough time with it." She met Widowmaker's eyes with a rebellious little smirk, placing her smoke back to her lips.

_ That _ gave her pause, brows shooting up, nearly affronted. " _ Docteur, _ I feel certain you have seen my...  _ extensive _ victims list—"

"Through the scope of a sniper rifle," Angela clarified, leaning her hips back against the guardrail. She grinned impishly, removing her lipstick-stained smoke from her mouth again. "Miles out from the target, at that."

" _ And? _ "

"You haven't seen enough of it  _ up close. _ "

Golden eyes studied her sharply in the moonlight. "Is that so." Three steps and Angela's breath hitched sharply at the feeling of Widowmaker pressed flush against her, pressing her harder against the railing of the balcony, hands grasping the thin iron on either side of Angela's hips. The cold night wind lifted Angela's hair, kissing her neck, making her shiver against Widowmaker's relentless grip. Widowmaker could smell smoke and cloves and champagne on her mouth this close, and it took all the strength she had not to shift  _ nearer. _ "And how  _ close _ , exactly, would you  _ recommend _ , Angela?"

To her credit, Angela didn't flinch at the little purr in her voice, despite that this close Widowmaker could  _ see _ the way her pupils expanded sharply, could  _ feel _ the way her breath quickened. She bit her lip thoughtfully for a second—brought her cigarette back to her lips for a distraction. "Care for another, Widowmaker?"

Her grin went feral. "Answer the question."

Angela cocked her head. "Close enough to have them balanced..." She tapped her finger against Widowmaker's lower lip. "...on a single finger." A wicked smirk barely touched Angela's lips; her finger dragged slowly lower down, resting lightly against the hollow of her throat. Widowmaker swallowed hard. "...Close enough to fit their pulse between your teeth."

"Ah," Widowmaker noted, glancing down as the end of Angela's cigarette flared just slightly. She pressed closer, feeling Angela shiver against her as their bodies all but molded together, her cool breath playing soft over Angela's lips. "Is that why you like to carry death between your teeth,  _ docteur? _ Because you spend so much time around it?" Her gaze flickered to the cigarette again to ensure her meaning wasn't lost. She smirked up at those lidded blue eyes—leaned closer. Angela's breath hitched sharply, eyes widening as velvet-soft lips painted deep plum brushed hers, barely, barely—

And then Widowmaker pulled away, smirking victoriously, Angela's cigarette between her lips. It took Angela a moment to realize she'd been played. She merely rolled her eyes.

"That's interesting," Widowmaker drawled, flicking ash off the end. "One could argue that a fear and  _ avoidance _ of death is what makes one human. Yet you actively seek to be as close to it as possible." She could still taste Angela's lips on her own. How distracting. "Even if you defy it."

Angela's gaze shifted in an instant at the comment, brightening with something like mischief. A slow, sarcastic smirk curled her lips. "Ah, now,  _ that's _ a conversation topic," she purred with a clap of her hands. She straightened up again and dusted her suit off. "The humanity of the defier of death called into question by one who claims not to fear it. Intriguing."

Widowmaker chuckled, exhaling a slow, steady stream of smoke in her direction. "I am under no delusions regarding the status of my humanity,  _ docteur. _ "

"Oh?" Angela picked up her champagne flute again, holding the stem expertly as she circled Widowmaker, contemplative.

" _ Oui. _ As I recall, it was  _ you _ who fought to have me protected under the Geneva Conventions upon my capture, hm? Because I was neither in the military nor a civilian." Angela tilted her head, looking mildly surprised of her knowledge of that private debacle, and nodded silently. Widowmaker picked up her own glass from a short stone pillar, the remaining liquor long-abandoned and nearly-forgotten, gesturing sarcastically at the doctor with it. "If I am neither of these binary categories, then I must be something outside them both,  _ non? _ Something  _ in _ human."

Angela's brows leapt up, and she couldn't stop a slow grin from tugging at her lips. "You didn't strike me as the apophatic type." She took a seat at the tiny wrought-iron patio table, gesturing for Widowmaker to join her at the seat opposite.

"I don't strike many people as the philosophical type at all," Widowmaker pointed out, smoothing her skirt under her thighs to take a seat. She didn't miss the way Angela's gaze traced the bare skin revealed by the high slit as she crossed her legs. "Though I  _ am _ somewhat surprised that a medical professional bothers learning about theology. Philosophy I could perhaps understand, but—"

Angela's laugh was soft and melodic. "I've been  _ personally _ protested by religious groups enough that some of the language has rubbed off on me." She took a sip from her glass. Widowmaker admired the slight motion of her pale throat as she swallowed. She decided that Angela's pulse was one she wouldn't at all mind fitting between her teeth. "You'd be surprised how many people will fight for the humanity of a zygote yet dispute my own."

"Ah," Widowmaker said, sipping her own champagne thoughtfully. "So you  _ are _ familiar with having it called into question. Being made to prove your humanity yourself."

"Oh, certainly, and far more frequently than you, I feel."

Widowmaker intentionally crushed the cigarette's light out against the iron table, tendrils of bluish smoke coiling around her fingers. "And what have you found thus far,  _ docteur? _ "

Angela regarded her thoughtfully for a long minute, absently tapping a long, slender finger against the base of her glass. Thinking. Examining. Contemplating. At last she nodded and began to speak again. "You've heard the thought problem regarding the ship of Theseus, I presume?" Angela's eyes were dark in the shadow of the balcony. She leaned back, crossing her legs—Widowmaker was distracted, momentarily, by the gesture, admiring the way the silken fabric clung to Angela's thighs—and brought her champagne flute closer again. She touched her ring finger to her tongue, smirking at Widowmaker's intent stare, and lightly traced the dampened finger around the rim of the glass. A soft, shimmering note rose from the crystal. "Or perhaps Theseus' paradox, depending."

" _ Oui. _ " Widowmaker leaned forward, resting her chin on interlocked fingers, gilded eyes narrowing to study Angela more intently. "If the ancient ship is replaced piece by piece with newer material, is it the same ship by the end of its journey?"

"Ah," Angela purred, giving her a feral, predatory smile across the little iron table. The tiniest shiver dared to dart down Widowmaker's spine. "By the end, the debate's already over, isn't it, schatzli? I'd think it's far more interesting to pinpoint when, exactly, the ship  _ ceases _ to be the same."

"Hm?"

She folded her arms on the table, leaning in slightly. "Suppose the ship has been replaced board by board until it's entirely built with new boards, but it used the original nails to hammer them into place. Would you argue that the new ship, using naught but the nails to hold it together, is the same ship?"

At this closeness Widowmaker could smell smoke still lingering on Angela's warm breath, backed by champagne and something sweet. She was half struck by the impulse to lean in and determine by taste what, exactly, it was. And yet—"I suppose not," she acquiesced, sipping from her own glass.

"Imagine the reverse—that the ship is wholly made up of the original boards, but the nails have all been replaced with newer nails. Would you say it's still the same ship?"

Widowmaker was smiling outright now. "I suppose so." She rested her chin in her hand, absently tapping her lips with one finger. The motion was designed to draw attention lower, and Widowmaker grinned to see Angela fall for it, pretty blue eyes flickering down to the exposed skin of her chest. She caught herself quickly, eyes darting back up to Widowmaker's face even as a soft blush reddened her ears. Widowmaker nearly laughed. Oh, they were far too close now. This was dangerous. "So, then,  _ docteur, _ your descriptions beg the question..." She cocked her head, a stray strand of black tickling her cheek. "Which are  _ you? _ "

Angela threw back the remainder of her champagne easily and grinned in reply. "It's a thought experiment, schatzli. Shouldn't you draw your own conclusions?"

"And if I don't have enough information to do so?"

"Well." She smirked. Widowmaker felt a sharp tug of desire to wipe that smug look off her face. "I suppose you'd have to do some research for yourself."

_ My, my. _

"Very well." Widowmaker stood gracefully and extended a hand down to the marginally surprised Doctor Ziegler.

"Where are we going?" Angela asked even as she placed her unusually warm— _ unnaturally _ warm—hand atop Widowmaker's so much colder palm, allowing herself to be pulled up. She laughed softly when Widowmaker offered her arm, but graciously accepted the gesture, allowing herself to be led. "Widowmaker?"

"I was instructed to look into things," Widowmaker said, cryptic as ever. Angela couldn't help but blush at the smirk Widowmaker gave her. "I intend to do so."

Angela cleared her throat. "...How's that?"

"Field research."

If anyone noticed Angela hanging off Widowmaker's arm when the pair entered the low-lit ballroom a second time, for once, they at least made it discrete.


End file.
